Chapters (so far):
One | Two | Three | Four | Five
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Amelie had written Ray Batsby’s first rule – with some paraphrasing – on a piece of coloured card, using a fancy metallic pen, in neat, girlish handwriting, and placed it in a small frame on her desk, so that it would be in her eyeline constantly, but she could quickly push it face-down if somebody entered her office.
It read:
“Men are never wrong.
I will never contradict a man.
If my opinion contradicts a man’s,
I will push it out of my head and forget it.
If a man makes me feel awkward or unhappy,
I will apologise.
It is my fault.”
She had been raised a feminist, and she knew it was going to take some effort for her to internalise these ideas. She was worried that she would slip up, and so she put in extra effort each day to stare at these simple phrases and encode them into her brain.
And while she did so, she worked on Ray’s other two rules.
It was, for instance, embarrassing for Amelie to get into the habit of asking permission from her boss to eat lunch, and to use the toilet. It was harder still to habitually call him “sir”. Those things were not part of the culture of the parole service, where officers were expected to be self-directed.
But Ray Batsby had told her to do those things. And he had told her that if she didn’t obey, he “would know” – and that there would be “consequences”.
It was ridiculous, of course. Ray was a convicted felon, of limited financial means, and while he might possibly stalk her or surveil her outside the office, there was simply no way he could know how she interacted with her manager or her fellow parole officers.
And yet Amelie was committed to doing it anyway. Partly because she was terrified of what those “consequences” might be – she had, after all, allowed her name to be secretly entered into a database of sex offenders, and Ray had a well-documented record of abducting, raping, traumatising and impregnating women who offended him.
But mostly because it simply felt *right* to obey. For all that it was frightening and humiliating to let her clients slap her, abuse her, control her and fuck her, it felt *right*, in a way that all her years of education and dignity and empowerment never had. When Ray had called her a “lying cunt”, her first instinct had been to accept the insult at face value. She *was* a cunt, and she *had* spent her life lying – about being smart, about being independent, about not needing a man to control her…
She thought of kittens, who would instinctively go limp when a mother cat bit down on their scruff, in order to carry or protect them. Did she, too, have some natural, unavoidable instinct to become a compliant slut once a man slapped her, or grabbed her hair, or called her a bitch?
She thought she might.
And so she did as she was told. When she went to the supermarket, she told the 18-year-old male cashier, “I’d like to buy these, please, sir.” When her father rang her on the phone to discuss her week, she blushed and called him “sir”, which she had never used to describe her father at any previous time in her life. And when she saw a loose Doberman on the street one afternoon, and felt a momentary feeling of fear, she remembered her rules, and apologised to the dog for her instinctive flinch. “I’m sorry, sir,” she muttered, blushing bright red at the knowledge she was treating an animal as her superior.
After a couple of days, her boss called her into his office.
“Amelie,” he said as she sat, “you know you really don’t have to call me ‘sir’. And you don’t need to ask permission to use the facilities or eat lunch.”
His name was Gabriel Horner, and Amelie had always had the sense he disapproved of her a little. Honestly, it hadn’t been *that* hard to call him “sir”, because she was already more than a little intimidated by him. He was her father’s age, he was handsome, he wore an immaculate suit, and he didn’t take shit from anyone.
“I know, sir,” said Amelie, blushing. “But I just… feel like it’s what I want to do.”
“I could order you to stop,” said Mr Horner.
Amelie said nothing. She didn’t know what she’d do if she did. She’d be caught between the instructions of two separate men with authority over her, and she wasn’t sure how she should resolve it.
Mr Horner looked at her for a moment, and then changed directions. “How are you doing with your parolees, Amelie?” he asked her.
“Very well!” said Amelie immediately. She didn’t want the slightest suspicion from her boss about the odd turn her relationship with her clients had taken. “I think they respond well to a woman, Mr Horner.”
They responded well in the sense that they enjoyed slapping her and calling her a cunt and ejaculating on or in her, but she didn’t say that.
Mr Horner’s mind had clearly gone in the same direction, though.
“These men are convicted rapists, Amelie,” he said. “I would have thought they’d only respond to a woman in… problematic ways.”
“Oh, no,” said Amelie. “We’re making very promising progress. And none of them have reoffended since I took their files.”
At least, not that anyone knew about.
But even as she said it, she mentally kicked herself. She was contradicting Mr Horner! Men were always right! She was breaking Ray Batsby’s rule!
“I mean, actually, you’re right, sir,” she said, backpedalling. “I do think they have… certain fantasies about me. But I think that helps get their defences down, and encourages them to be more honest.”
“You think the fact your clients fantasise about raping you helps in their rehabilitation?” asked Mr Horner, dubiously.
“Yes, sir,” blushed Amelie. “I think it does.”
“If we took that thought to its conclusion, Amelie,” said Mr Horner, “it would suggest that you should actively *encourage* these rape fantasies, doesn’t it?”
She looked at him. She didn’t know what to say.
Except she did. Agree with him.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Well, let’s try this out,” said Mr Horner. “You have permission to dress more… suggestively, if you wish. And… why don’t we try putting your hair in pigtails? I think your clients would like that, Amelie.”
She would look like a child. She would look like a bimbo. She wanted to say no.
Carefully, she pushed the “no” out of her mind.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll do that.”
His smile became a kind of smirk.
“You know, Amelie,” he said. “I honestly didn’t think you’d say yes to that. When you first came to this office, I thought you were preachy, and I thought you were stuck-up, and I thought, honestly, that you might be a bit of a bitch. You were so sure you knew how to do this job, despite having zero experience, and so I deliberately gave you a caseload of nothing but rapists.”
Amelie hadn’t known that. She had thought it was an accident that she had been given these men. But she said nothing.
“But you’ve surprised me,” said Mr Horner. “In only a short time, you’ve turned out to be respectful, and polite, and receptive to instructions. And you’ve shown that you know your place – as a new employee, and as a woman.”
Amelie blushed at this last comment. She had always suspected that Mr Horner was something of a chauvinist – and now she knew it was true.
“Tell me, Amelie,” he said. “What will you do if you ask me for permission to use the toilet, and I say no?”
She blushed deeper. She didn’t know what to say.
“If you’re going to go to the toilet anyway, then it’s very insincere to ask permission, Amelie,” said Mr Horner. “Are you seriously suggesting that you won’t go unless I allow you to?”
“Yes, sir,” said Amelia quietly. “I won’t, unless you tell me I can.”
She didn’t like what she was saying at all, but Mr Horner was right – it was the natural implication of asking permission. And she knew it was what Ray Batsby would expect of her.
Mr Horner looked at her. Then he picked up a pitcher of water on his desk, and poured a glass, which he passed to Amelie.
“Drink,” he said. “The whole glass.”
Obediently, Amelie drank the glass down, and passed it back to her boss.
He filled it again, and passed it back to her.
“Again,” he said.
She drank it.
He poured a third glass.
“And again.”
She drank.
He smiled.
“There are six hours left in today’s working day, Amelie, and then I expect you to put in two hours of overtime, to catch up on the paperwork you’re behind in,” he said. “And you do not have permission to use the toilet. I will come and see you when it is time for you to go home. We’ll see how sincere you are.”
Inside, Amelie was groaning with fear and despair.
But she knew what to say. Her boss had made her worried and unhappy, so she needed to apologise.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Thank you for testing me.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now – get back to work.”
===
Her appointment that afternoon was Chris Swain, the young male rapist whose crush on a waitress had led Amelie to stalk the girl and violate her privacy.
As she waited for him to arrive, Amelie fossicked in her purse, and found a couple of scraps of ribbon near the bottom. She used these to put her hair up in pigtails, as Mr Horner had suggested. When she checked the results in a hand-mirror, she saw that, despite the fact that she was 23-years-old, the pigtails made her look like slutty teen jailbait.
It was already so hard to get the respect and compliance of her clients. With her hair like this, it was difficult to imagine *anybody* respecting her.
When Chris finally arrived, it was clear that her new look pleased him – but then, Chris was so constantly horny that Amelie felt he would have been hard for her no matter what she looked like. His gaze didn’t linger long on her pigtails before drifting down to linger on her tits. It was a gaze that made her feel like nothing but a sex doll – a pair of tits and a set of holes that existed only to please Chris’ cock.
And that was okay, in a way. It felt… honest.
“How are you doing, Chris?” she said, as she let him into her office.
But his only answer was to immediately put a hand on her throat and push her backwards, hard, until she slammed into the opposite wall with a bang.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He was breathing heavily, and his body was pressed against hers, crushing her tits with his chest. She flailed at him a little with her hands, but he managed to somehow catch them both with his free hand, and then pin them against the wall, above her head, even as his knee worked between her legs, forcing them apart.
“Chris…” she began, trying to push him away.
“There was this girl on the train this morning,” explained Chris. “You should have seen her tits! And her ass! And I had this fantasy of following her off the train, and then stripping her naked in an alleyway, and fucking her hard. It would have been so good to rape her – you have no idea. She was just begging to be raped. But I controlled myself. I’ve been good.”
“That’s good, Chris…” said Amelie.
“I knew if I could just last until I saw you, I could take it out on you and pretend that you were her,” said Chris. “I can, can’t I?”
Amelie’s cunt was soaking wet. Her body wanted this. And she was scared of what would happen if she said no. She was fairly certain Chris would take her anyway – and after that, would he bother controlling his lust with other women? Or would he violate his parole at the first opportunity he had?
No, it was better to maintain the illusion of control.
“Yes,” breathed Amelie. “It’s okay. You can rape me, Chris.”
“Fuck, yes,” sighed Chris. And then he was fumbling at her clothes, pulling open her suit jacket and unbuttoning her shirt, unhooking her skirt and letting it fall to the floor, before yanking her panties down her legs.
“Try to struggle,” he told her. “It’s better when they struggle.”
She did – making a genuine effort to get free of him, if only to see whether she could. But she was stuck. He was much stronger than her, and he had leverage, and when she tried to kick him away he laughed, and then slapped her across the face, and then pressed down on her neck with his hand, choking her, until she submitted.
The act of struggling made it more real. It made it clear to her that she was powerless, and that a man was going to fuck her, by force, no matter what she wanted, and that he didn’t care if she consented and he didn’t care if he hurt her.
When she felt his cock push its way into her wet, unprotected pussy, and when he simultaneously leaned in and kissed her, his tongue forcing itself between her lips, the pressure of it making it hard for her to breathe, she began to panic. Her body began to violently buck against him, in a way that only forced his dick further inside her, and she made involuntary whimpering sounds – a cry for help, except that she didn’t really want anyone to hear it and find her half-nude and fucking a client.
Chris just held her firm against the wall and kept fucking her, rhythmically ramming his cock into her fuckhole, again and again, completely uncaring about her comfort or enjoyment, using her as a tool to masturbate with. He whispered a name as he fucked her, and it wasn’t her name, and Amelie knew that he wasn’t even enjoying fucking her, bur rather fantasising about some other woman.
In her helpless panic, Amelie had a moment of clarity. This was what she had been born for. From an evolutionary perspective, her entire body was designed only to bring her to this place – to get a man to ejaculate into her womb. Her enjoyment was irrelevant, her consent was unimportant. It mattered only that a man – any man – put a baby inside her.
Perhaps that was why it felt so good. Perhaps Amelie was achieving her purpose. Perhaps the wild, overwhelming pleasure she felt throughout her whole body was her reward for allowing herself to become nothing but a receptacle for Chris’ sperm.
And then, Chris was doing just that. His thrusting stopped, and he shuddered, and when Amelie felt the sudden wetness between her legs, she found herself orgasming too – not from the stimulation, but from the knowledge of her own objectification. Her legs went weak, and she would have collapsed had she not been pinned against the wall by Chris’ arms, chest and cock.
“Fuck, yes,” sighed Chris. “You’re such a hot slut.”
And Amelie wasn’t sure if he was talking to her, or to the girl of his fantasies.
After a few moments, he pulled out of her, and stepped back. His cock was still dripping cum, and Amelie saw it was about to drip on the carpet of her office, so she immediately fell to her knees and took his dick in her mouth, sucking on it gently, submissively receiving the last of his sperm. He instinctively reached out to grab her pigtails, and used them to pull her close, flattening her face against his groin.
Her own cunt was about to drip, too. She instinctively wiped at it with her hand, collecting a small pool of semen from her snatch, but then didn’t know what to do with it. She would have taken her mouth off Chris’ cock to lick her hands clean, but his grip on her pigtails was tight, so she settled for wiping the sperm on her tits, massaging it into the skin of her breasts like a lotion, before returning her hand to her pussy to catch more of the leaking cum.
Chris held her there for long minutes, and she began to fear that his cock would harden again and he would want to fuck her mouth. But instead, he eventually let her go, and moved back, sitting down on the couch heavily, his legs spread and his cock still out.
“Thank you,” he said.
Should she accept his thanks? No, he had made her uncomfortable – had hurt her, and raped her – and so, according to her rules, it was she who should apologise.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know what she was apologising *for* exactly – so she just left it at that, implying that being slapped and raped had been her own fault, and something she deserved. “Thank you,” she added – and she certainly knew what she was thanking him for. The orgasm, for one thing, and the sense of being used as she was intended to be used. She was also thanking him for not hurting her more – which she knew he could easily have done.
He motioned at the ground at his feet, between his legs, in the way one might summon a dog. “Come over here,” he said.
She crawled across the floor until she was kneeling at his feet.
“That was so good,” he sighed again. “I guess I’ll keep trying to be good, if I get to use you like that.”
That was what Amelie wanted to hear. She smiled.
“But I guess we’ve got some other business,” he went on.
“That’s right,” said Amelie. “Your parole…”
He shook his head. “No, I mean the waitress,” he said. “The one you were going to look into for me. Why don’t you tell me all about her?”
Amelie’s heart sank. It had been a vain hope that he would forget, or that he hadn’t been serious. Now she would have to share with him the results of her stalking – and worry about what he would do with the information.
And, as she came down from her sexual high, she also became aware that her bladder was uncomfortably full – and she still had Mr Horner’s instructions to obey…
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